by Amy Harmon
Help Maeve, the voice had said.
A sudden thought dawned. Maeve’s death had to be connected to Helena’s. Did Helena know who killed Maeve?
“How can I help her?” Eliza called into the darkness.
She held her breath, listening to nothing. Slowly rising, Eliza brushed off her clothing. The early morning air was cold and damp, but she paid no attention to it. Her heart seemed to be pumping warmth through her veins. She pressed forward through the undergrowth until she finally came to the clearing with Maeve’s home.
A faint light glowed from within. Eliza hesitated. Someone was there. Was Helena waiting for her? Could ghosts light candles? Eliza spun in a circle looking for any signs.
“Show me what to do,” she said.
“Go to her.” The voice was faint.
Eliza felt a shiver crawl up her back. She swallowed hard and walked to the door of Maeve’s—Helena’s—house. Even before she turned the door handle, Eliza knew it was Gus Junior inside. He sat on the rocking chair, staring at the ceiling, rocking slowly back and forth. When he saw her, he moved his head in surprise, blinking rapidly.
“Looking for something?” She was no longer afraid of the strange man, but she still stayed close to the door.
Gus’s eyes narrowed. “What are thou doing ’ere?”
“This is my property now.”
Gus rose from the chair. “Thou ’as it, doesn’t thee?” He took a step forward.
Eliza held her ground. “Has what?”
“’Er journal.”
“Helena’s?”
Gus’s face paled. “How dare thee speak ’er name? She’ll hear thee.”
Eliza stared at the man and realized that he believed Helena’s ghost was present too. But she had something he didn’t—Helena’s support.
A draft of air stirred Eliza’s hair, causing gooseflesh to rise on her neck. “Helena led me here.”
Gus’s face drained to white.
Eliza knew she had the advantage. “She can’t rest until her murderer confesses.”
“She drowned,” he said matter-of-factly, as if trying to convince himself.
“I don’t believe you.”
He crossed to the sofa and sat heavily upon it. He buried his face in his hands, swaying back and forth. Eliza was taken by surprise—she hadn’t expected this reaction.
Quiet sobs came from the surly man. “I didn’t mean to tell. But father said he’d whip me if I told what happened. He tried to stop her, but she fought back too much. He couldn’t let her get away. When he brought ’er back in the wagon, she wasn’t moving. The town thought she’d drowned, and we let ’em believe it.”
So it was true. Eliza sagged against the wall. “What did you do with Helena?”
Gus wiped his nose with his arm. “We hid ’er body.”
She felt sick.
Raising his tearstained face, Gus went on. “I found the journal after my father’s death and ne’er told anyone.”
She actually felt sorry for the poor man. He was a child when this happened and wasn’t to blame. “Your father can’t hurt you anymore.”
His shoulders stopped heaving, and his sobs quieted.
“Did you break into this house to find the journal?”
Gus lifted his head again, his eyes darkening with fury. “Maeve took it, and I know she was goin’ to tell someone. And when you moved in, I knew I had to stop ’er.”
Eliza steadied herself against the door. Had Gus just confessed to killing Maeve? She tried to conceal the panic in her eyes. “What did you do, Gus?” She inched her hand toward the door handle.
A shadow crossed his face as he rose. “Thou are goin’ to tell ’em, aren’t ’e? Thou are goin’ to tell how my father killed ’er, that I had to take care of Maeve too.”
Eliza reached the handle and spun around, pushing at the door with all her might. But it was too late. Gus lunged and grabbed her, dragging her to the floor. She gasped as she thudded against the ground. She was trapped beneath his weight. “Don’t hurt me. I won’t tell anyone.”
He laughed like a wild animal. “I won’t hurt thee, Helena. I love thee. Now stop moving so much.”
Cold fingers of fear spread through Eliza. Gus was repeating words he must have heard his father say.
“I’m not Helena. Get off me!” she screamed.
He covered her mouth with his heavy hand and grinned, his breath sour. “I know thou still lovest me.” Staring into Eliza’s eyes, he brought both hands to her neck and started to squeeze. Gagging, she tried to scratch him, but it only made him squeeze harder.
“Helena!” she gasped. “Help me.” A scraping sound came from the other side of the room.
Gus smiled. “It’s the only way, m’love, that thou wilt stay mine forever.”
Just before the darkness closed in, Eliza saw the rocking chair rise in the air and smash into Gus’s head.
* * *
“Please find me.”
Eliza opened her eyes as the voice faded from her mind. She was in a room with white-washed walls.
“Eliza?”
She turned her head and saw her father sitting next to her bed. He looked years older, his face darkened with whiskers and his eyes rimmed in red. Grimacing at the soreness in her neck, she tried to speak, but her voice was nothing but a croak.
“You’re at Ruth’s home,” her father said. “You’ve had an accident.”
Then it came flooding back to her—Gus, the journal, the attack. She closed her eyes against stinging tears. And now the voice was back.
Please find me, it had said.
Eliza wanted to get out of the bed, leave the house, and never return to Maybrook.
Her father took her hand. “You’re safe now.”
“What happened?” she whispered.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he soothed.
“Tell me now,” she said, flinching at the pain in her neck.
Her father hesitated. “I heard you leave the house. At first I thought you had gone for a short walk and would return soon. When you didn’t, I told Ruth, and she guessed that you had gone to Maeve’s. So I rode over as quickly as I could; it was as if someone was guiding me in the dark.”
Eliza swallowed painfully. She knew who was guiding her father.
He continued. “I heard a terrific racket and ran to the door, trying to push it open. Only it was blocked by something. Through the slit I saw a man pinning you down…” His voice cracked. “He was choking you.”
She brought a hand to her throat.
“It was strange, but the rocking chair fell on top of him,” her father said. “How that is possible, I do not know. But it made him release his grip on your neck.”
Eliza remembered the rocking chair lifting—and knew that the only explanation for it was Helena.
“When the man saw me, he scrambled away from you and stood up,” her father said. “I shot him with Ruth’s pistol.”
Eliza stared at her father’s haunted face, shocked at her father’s actions. With great effort she asked, “Is he…?”
“The bullet hit him in the leg.” Her father grimaced. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. The man’s in jail now—he can no longer hurt anyone.”
She brought her father’s hand to her cheek, tears wetting his palm. “His father killed Helena.”
Mr. Robinson stared at her. “Helena?”
“Jonathan Porter’s mother.” Eliza’s throat throbbed, but she had to explain. “She used to live in Aunt Maeve’s house. I found Helena’s journal and suspected how the poor woman died. Gus was trying to protect his dead father’s name. He thought Aunt Maeve had learned the secret of Helena’s death.”
Her father’s jaw locked firm. Then he took Eliza into his arms and held her tightly. Even with the pain shooting through her neck, she clung to her father and let the tears fall.
“Please find me.”
Eliza stiffened. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
“Hear w
hat?” her father said.
Eliza broke from her father, fear thundering through her. She’d discovered how Helena had died. She’d discovered who’d killed Maeve. Gus was in jail now. What more could Helena possibly want?
Leave me alone! she screamed inside.
“Father, I’m ready to go home,” she said in a shaky voice. “Now.”
Chapter Eighteen
Settling into the train compartment, Eliza allowed her father to fuss over her. He tucked blankets beneath her feet and placed a pillow behind her head.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Mr. Robinson offered a brief smile, temporarily masking the concern on his face. “Your mother will never forgive me.” The crease on his forehead deepened. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
After Eliza had felt well enough to travel, she went with her father to the constable’s office to make a sworn statement of all the facts she knew. She wrote her testimony about Gus’s murder confession. Mr. Robinson was congratulated for his timely appearance, and none were saddened at the imprisonment of the strange man named Gus, now revealed as the murderer, who had apparently followed in his father’s footsteps.
The bizarre event of how the rocking chair came to move across the room and fall upon Gus was explained by an open window and a strong gust of wind. But Eliza knew what had really happened. Helena had come to her aide. Still, Eliza was grateful that she was leaving Helena behind for good.
Now, Eliza’s heart was heavy for a different reason. Her father would tell Jonathan what had transpired and present him with Helena’s journal. Eliza’s stomach churned as she thought about Jon reading his mother’s words. Through her own close call with the younger Gus, she knew firsthand what Helena must have experienced. Then another question fleeted through her mind, but it was gone before she could answer it.
Why did Ruth own a pistol?
“Are you all right, dear? You look pale,” her father said.
“Only tired,” she whispered.
“Nothing will make me happier than to have you safe and sound at home.”
When they arrived in New York, her father helped her off of the train and into a waiting carriage.
Eliza settled into the carriage seat with relief. Dismal clouds hung low in the sky, promising rain and dreary cold, but New York City had never looked so beautiful to her.
When they at last arrived home, her mother was waiting. She waved the maid away, followed Eliza into her room and helped her change from her traveling clothes.
“I was so worried when I received the telegram from your father. How are you feeling, dear?”
“Much better, Mother,” Eliza whispered.
“I knew I shouldn’t have left you—I should have dragged you home.”
Eliza smiled at the thought of her mother physically dragging her. After all the tension that had been between them, it was good to know that her mother truly cared. When Eliza was settled beneath the down comforter and propped up with several pillows, she managed, “Are the papers full of my tale of woe?”
“Fancy that you are so interested in the local gossip on your first day back.”
Eliza laughed. “I guess I’ve changed.”
“The write-up was quite wonderful, actually,” her mother said. “It outlined the death of poor Maeve and your fortunate discovery of the murderer.”
“Really?”
“Really, Eliza. You’re so cynical.” She shook her head. “The earlier gossip was not brought up in today’s paper, and neither was the reason you went to Maybrook in the first place.”
“That’s a relief,” Eliza whispered.
Mrs. Robinson nodded. A knock sounded at the door. “Yes?” she called out.
“Mr. Porter is waiting downstairs,” the maid, Bess, said through the door. “And Mr. Robinson requests your presence, ma’am.”
Jon was here?
“I’m coming.” Mrs. Robinson turned to Eliza. “Stay here. You’ll be all right for a few moments?”
When her mother left, Eliza scanned the room, seeing it in a different light. Even though it had only been a couple of months, everything looked different, childish. Porcelain dolls lined one wall, and the curtains were a cheerful pink. A stuffed and ragged doll sat amongst the porcelain dolls—it was her childhood treasure. Her father had bought the doll for her when she was sick with the measles.
But now the ragged doll seemed unbefitting in the dainty room, as if she didn’t belong in such a pretty world. Eliza turned to her side and hugged a pillow to her chest. She was like that doll, out of place in this sheltered house.
The door clicked open, and her mother entered. “What a persistent man. He practically tried to bowl over your father and come up the stairs to see you. Thank goodness he finally left.” She frowned at Eliza. “Patience is a virtue in a person, you know.”
He wants to see me. Eliza hid a smile as her mother fussed about the room. “He’s engaged to the socialite Apryl Maughan. She’s a trifle gregarious for my taste, and her figure shows her indulgent lifestyle. I don’t understand how a mother could let her daughter become so overweight.”
“Appearance isn’t everything,” Eliza croaked.
Her mother turned. “Of course not, dear. I wasn’t suggesting such a thing. I was merely pointing out that there is always room for improvement.”
Eliza stifled an exasperated sigh.
“You should get your rest,” her mother said, adjusting the covers.
She waited until her mother left before letting out a moan into her pillow. Her mother was so judgmental—ironically, not unlike the Puritans who had ostracized Helena.
Warmth moved through her as she thought about Jon trying to push his way through the house to her room. Soon the warmth was replaced by exhaustion, and she fell into a deep sleep.
Eliza ran through the house, searching for Aunt Maeve. All of the doors were locked, and she began pounding then, one by one, until she finally started sobbing.
“Maeve, where are you?”
Then a knock sounded at the door, and she moved toward it, almost floating. It was Gus, and his face was lined with fury. “Let me in!”
Eliza braced herself against the door, but couldn’t fend off his weight. The door swung open, she fell, and Gus was standing above her.
“It’s time you joined Maeve.” He grabbed her hair and pulled upward.
Eliza woke in her bed; the collar of her nightgown was damp. She tried to still her heaving chest. The candle on the nightstand was wallowing in a puddle of wax, since she hadn’t blown it out before falling asleep. Eliza grabbed another candle, lighting it against the flame and placing it into a candleholder. She couldn’t decide which was worse—the voice of Helena plaguing her, or nightmares about Gus.
She began to shiver, so she rose and grabbed the ragged doll. She climbed back into bed and held the tattered doll tightly, letting the flickering candle burn itself out. It was a long time before she fell asleep again.
* * *
In the morning, Eliza’s voice was nearly recovered, only slightly hoarse. She stayed in bed long after breakfast, not ready to face the daily chatter of local events. Bess brought her a tray in bed, and Eliza was content with the quiet meal.
Before noon, her mother peeked in. “Are you ready to receive visitors?”
“I suppose.”
Her mother smiled. “Wonderful. Mrs. Graydon will be coming at three.”
Eliza hoped she was equal to the task. If Mrs. Graydon came, there would be no need for anyone else to visit. The seventy-year old woman was better than a newspaper at distributing news.
“I know what you’re thinking, Eliza, but Mrs. Graydon has been one of the steadfast friends through all of this.” Mrs. Robinson removed a letter from her pocket. “This was delivered this morning.” She handed Eliza the small square envelope, her lips pursed.
“Thank you.” Eliza wondered if it was another note from Nathaniel; she’d already received two. But there was no return address on the e
nvelope. She pulled out the brief message.
“I hope you’re feeling better.”
There was no signature, but Eliza recognized the handwriting as Jon’s. Eliza burrowed into her covers, thinking about the man who seemed to have plenty of compassion in him after all.
An hour later, Eliza was situated in the parlor, assailed with the jasmine aroma that preceded Mrs. Graydon’s presence. Mrs. Graydon firmly believed in making an indelible impression on everyone she met, and although she was nearly seventy, Eliza thought the woman looked many years younger. Mrs. Graydon kept up with the latest fashions, showing them off with her still-trim figure.
Eliza smiled politely as the elegant woman sat next to her. With each movement, Eliza caught a whiff of perfume. But Eliza was glad for the visit—it made her feel normal. It made things like a ghostly voice seem unreal, existing only in her imagination.
“You look pale, my dear,” Mrs. Graydon began. “And so thin.” Her gaze flitted in Mrs. Robinson’s direction.
Eliza’s mother straightened in her chair. “Each day she grows stronger.”
Mrs. Graydon placed a dry silky hand over Eliza’s. “After what you’ve been through, it’s a wonder you are out of bed at all. My granddaughter, Gina, would love to come and spend time with you. It will brighten your countenance to socialize again.”
Eliza didn’t know Gina well, but it would be nice to have a friend. All of her others had been silent since the Thomas Beesley incident. “I’d love to visit with Gina.”
“What a dear,” Mrs. Graydon crooned, her eyes watering. “I assure you, you’ve been at the top of my priorities. Just the other day, I went to see poor Miss Mable. She’s still recovering from childbirth, you know. Some women aren’t meant to bear children.”
Mrs. Robinson threw Mrs. Graydon a piercing stare; the woman didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re normally a strong young thing,” Mrs. Graydon continued. “When you marry, you’ll have healthy children.”
